Phelan
by Maidenhair
Summary: Don Juan turns out diferent... and Erik never shows up... strange happenings...Chapter 13, at last.
1. Chapter 1

**Phelan**

Disclaimer: I do not own POTO, (see, I'm not really plagiarizing! Well... ok, aren't we all? But I do not take credit for these ideas. Yay legalized plagiarism!)

**Chapter 1**

Christine stole one last look at Erik as she and Raoul road away from the graveyard. She could feel Raoul's disapproval of her previous actions. Yet, how could she let Erik be killed right before her eyes and say nothing? She watched Erik fade into the distance. He was stomping and clenching his fists like some enraged, wild thing. She wondered what he would do when they returned to the opera. She wondered what she herself would do.

The world blurred before Christine's vision as she found herself brushing tears from her eyes. She was terribly frightened and confused and she had not the slightest idea why. She brushed the tears aside. She did not want Raoul to see her crying.

At the opera Christine went to her room while Raoul discussed some idea of his with the managers. She gently lifted Erik's last rose and gazed at it, trying hard to decipher her feelings. She had told Raoul that Erik was a monster, a villain who must be apprehended at all costs. If that was the case, however, why had she stopped Raoul from doing away with the murdering wretch when he had the chance? Could it be that she felt differently than she had let on? Time and again she had told herself that Erik was her bane, a creature to be feared. Yet, she could not believe those words with her whole heart. Something stopped the warnings from penetrating her. Every time she spoke in such ways the image of Erik's tortured eyes filled her mind and the sound of his voice echoed in her ears. She could not bring herself to hate him.

Christine replaced the rose and wandered out onto the wings to listen to whatever Raoul and the opera managers were talking about. She wandered out and caught the sound of their voices. A pit filled her stomach; she was horrified. Raoul was planning for her play the lead role in Erik's opera. She was to play the part well, and then, somewhere, Erik would appear. When he did the police would be ready and... she used her imagination.

She clenched her fists. How could Raoul want her to do this? She was to be Erik's bait? For one thing, if Erik really was as dangerous as she had told herself and as Raoul believed, then she might be placing her life on the line. What was more, she had not agreed to help in this plot and certainly Raoul should have been able to take a hint from the graveyard incident that she did not want her friend dead. She glared down at the viscount accusingly.

Raoul glanced up and noticed her. He was surprised and tried to beckon to her. She ignored him, too upset to speak, and rushed to the chapel.

Raoul followed her and approached her gently. He took her hands and tried to console her, but to no avail. However, she did find herself agreeing to play a role in the plot. Raoul was an incredibly persuasive person when he wanted to be.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The dress was hideous. The bodice was as tight and revealing as Christine's skimpiest corset. The sleeves drooped from her shoulders and the skirt was of some gauzy material that chilled her legs in the cold halls and allowed them to be scorched under the stage lights. She felt uncomfortable and ridiculous all at once. She wondered how they expected her to sing in such a constricting garment. Even more than that, she wondered who designed the horrendous thing. She scowled at the thought of wearing such a dress in front of so many people.

Oddly, the theater had been sold out for the night. Every seat, save for the well guarded box five, had been purchased. Some people had even paid to stand in the wings. Apparently _Don Juan Triumphant_ was very alluring for the patrons. The news of the mysterious stranger in scarlet, who had suddenly appeared at the masked ball, demanded his work to be performed, and then vaporized, had reached the ears of Paris and the surrounding cities. Even some wealthy aristocrats from Britain had attended, as well as some of the most famous theatrical critics. Even though Erik's opera was no more than a trap, the revenue that the performance would be paid for itself.

The audience gossiped about the opera. Some were excited for the event whilst others seemed ready to jump upon any detail that did not suit their taste. On one occasion, Christine even heard remarked that some people believed the mysterious composer was a hired servant of some other musician, paid for a publicity stunt. Christine wondered what Erik made of all this talk.

"Diva to curtain," Meg whispered in Christine's ear. The ballet girl was trembling with anticipation and fear, but still wore a brave smile on her pretty face.

Christine echoed Meg's heroism and returned a smile of her own, "Coming, Meg," she said.

The first macabre strains of the overture resounded through the opera house. The patrons and critics tensed, unsure what to make of the alien sounds. One priggish man covered his ears and even tried to leave his box, but the way was barred. However, despite such unfavorable actions, Christine could not help but notice the older woman who had clasped her hands with delight, the critic whose face had burst into a rapturous smile, and the group of young men that nodded and grinned excitedly. She wondered what the public's reaction would be at the final curtain.

The singing started. Carlotta and the chorus sang wild, burring notes and strange words. Meg was on, flirting with an overdressed Piangi. Piangi began his part, plotting with accomplice vile plans for the gypsy maiden, Aminta, Christine's character. At last Christine was on, uncomfortable dress and all. Her voice echoed through the opera, even the bigoted critic was entranced. The music swelled with the plot, if Erik would appear it would be now, right at the start of the aria, _Past the Point of No Return._

Christine braced herself. Would Erik come from below the stage? Would he simply watch from his box? Would he enter the play itself? What was more, what would he do? How angry was he? What revenge would he have in store? Whatever happened, Christine was certain that she would be miserable with the outcome. What did it mater of Raoul or Erik died? One surely would, a hole in her heart would be made, and there was nothing she could do. Fatalistically, she prepared for the aria. Erik would come.

"Master?" Passarino asked.

Christine swallowed. Erik would come.

Piangi's vibrato-excessive voice sounded. The obese Italian warbled into the aria, perspiring under the stage-lights and his own massive weight.

Piangi was singing Don Juan, Erik's, song. What did that matter, Erik would still come.

Christine played her part beautifully, singing rapturously despite Piangi's rather unattractive form, age, and now, smell.

The duet became more impassioned, Piangi failing miserably at his part and Christine stealing the show. Her crystalline voice held the audience captive; more than a few gasps of awe at her notes was heard.

Finally, the aria was concluded. Don Juan carried poor Aminta off. More arias followed, each one better than the first, sometimes issuing shouts of applause, even before the act was over. Don Juan had begun trying to use the gypsy, but had, in turn, fallen in love with his victim. At the end, when the Don was being pursued for his crimes and Aminta was freed of him, he sang an aria of his love for her. The song was so beautiful that even Piangi's bellowing voice could not butcher it. The Don begged the maid for forgiveness, which she bestowed. The mob caught him, but he had tasted true love and forgiveness and was, in those ways, triumphant over what had long held him. Of course, the Don was not able to go without his punishment, and was then killed with a smattering of stage-blood. Aminta closed the show singing of her confused feelings now that she was alone.

The curtain fell. Erik had not come.

However, something else happened, something so extraordinary that it took Raoul and the guards completely by surprise. The crowd applauded. The cheers were not limited to the polite clapping that usually accompanies a show, but rather the audience issued forth a great roar. People rose from their seats. Even the prig critic pounded his gloved hands. Old and young alike, their eyes damp with emotion, lauded the performance.

The opera managers gaped. People actually _enjoyed_ that bizarre, dark story and the equally macabre music. Already people were rushing towards them, demanded when the next showing would take place. Reporters shouted a myriad of questions: Who was the composer? Where was he from? Why had he not signed his work? Where was he now? Why had such talent been hidden under the bushel basket, so to speak? The managers, in a state of shock, simply gargled that the composer was an unknown man whom had requested his opera to be performed and disappeared without a trace. The pressed was hooked, and promised a write-up. The critics were preparing their reviews as well. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was hailed as a new era in music history.

In the darkness of the backstage, Christine sat alone. Why had Erik not come? She felt a twinge of worry for him. What had become of him? Was he simply hidden, enjoying his music from a safe distance? Or, had something happened to him?

_But what could have happened to him?_ Christine thought.

"Christine!" Raoul rushed to her, "Dearest, you mustn't be alone now. The Phantom is sure to be about, waiting for you. Come, we must remind the managers what the opera was for!"

Raoul took Christine from her hiding place, which proved to be a bad move on his part. She was attacked, as it were, by a hoard of raving fans. Everyone wanted to see the little soprano who had replaced Carlotta, for that was obviously what the outcome of the night, if nothing else. With great difficulty, Raoul shoved and pushed the adoring populace away. He drew Christine close to himself to protect her from her own fame, and fought his way to the managerial box.

"Ah!" Andre called, a cigar in his mouth and liquor in his hand, "Our little exploit has come off quite well, eh?"

"Monsieur!" Raoul chided, "Have you forgotten what this whole plan was for?"

"Oh, but my dear Viscount, the Phantom has indeed paid for himself with what he has brought to our opera. We can even divest with Carlotta as a bonus! Quite a rewarding night, really." Andre puffed his cigar. Firmin was too busy, and too drunk, to talk.

"But think of Christine! If money is all you care for, think of your new diva!" Raoul was growing red in the face, "He carry her off if we let him loose like this!"

A few reporters jotted down Raoul's speech.

"He had have her," Andre replied, "He's been sending us letter since we arrived demanded that she play the lead parts. I'm sure he allow her to return to our world for performances..."

"How can you say that?" Raoul cried.

"Oh come, the man will be rich and famous before the evening is out, any girl would love that," Andre said, taking a drink. His speech was very slurred.

"Christine, tell them you disagree!" Raoul shouted, "Demand your safety, you're the diva now!"

"I..." Christine said, weakly, "I think I need some fresh air."

Raoul's anger turned to concern and he led his friend out from the crowds and into the darkened streets. Christine leaned against the opera wall, inhaling deeply.

"Are you ill, my love?" Raoul asked, taking her hands.

"No, no I am well," Christine reassured, "It's this dress. Raoul, escort me to my dressing-room, I simply must change out of this. I'm stifling!"

"What if _he_ is waiting for you?" Raoul asked, paling.

"Oh, Raoul, I've seen him before, what harm could come if I saw him again," Christine said, brushing off Raoul's paranoia.

"Christine!"

"I will die if I do not change!" Christine snapped.

Raoul sighed and reluctantly led her to the dressing room. He watched her go inside, and he stood directly outside her door, though he knew that he would be helpless against the ghost.

Raoul's fears were quelled when Christine exited her dressing room a few minutes after entering. She was clothed in a loose, pale-yellow gown and a brown cloak.

"Come, my dear," Raoul said gently, "I will take you home with me. You will be safe there."

"Thank you," Christine said softly, "But first, might we stop at the graveyard? You and Erik interrupted me when I went earlier."

"Not tonight," Raoul said, "The gates will be closed. Tomorrow?"

"I will wait, then."


	3. Chapter 3

The morning after the opera the papers were abuzz. Everyone wanted to read about the mysterious show.

**Le Epoque**

**Mysterious Opera at the Garnier Sweeps Music World **

The Paris Opera House has been graced with a production so powerful that all tickets for the next five showings have been sold out. _Don Juan Triumphant_, an opera in three acts, written by an unknown artist, has swept the musical world. It had become, overnight, a national fetish. Even our foreign cousins, the British, are hailing it as a masterpiece, fitting for modern artistic tastes. Acclaimed theatrical critic, Jean du Marc, hails _Don Juan_ as "...an exciting and fresh story... darkly enchanting ...a performance that no artistic minded person would miss..." British critic, Sir William Kent Bandsburry, says, "It is my deep hope that _Don Juan_ will grace the English stages soon. Never has the legend been more perfectly arranged since Lord Byron..." He goes on to say, "...it _Don Juan Triumphant_ has everything that makes an opera an opera. The music is sensational, the story dramatic, the sets brilliant in their own original way." The only criticism given the opera was from the ever harsh critic, Eduard Sylvian, who said, "...the only flaw I could perceive was the casting of Piangi as the Don. A younger, more emotional singer is needed for the part. It is refreshing to see Mlle. Daae in the role of Diva for a change, however. The show would have been a failure had La Carlotta sang." Tickets for _Don Juan Triumphant_ will be sold for upcoming performances, and it is wise to purchase them in advance...

**Le Echo **

**Grand Opera or Grand Theft?**

The managers of the Garnier may think that they have struck gold in the performance of _Don Juan Triumphant_, but they may be wrong. The opera, written by an unknown man, has made the managers, M. Andre Moncharmin and M. Firmin Richard, former dealers in the junk business, exceptionally wealthy. However, is this surplus legitimate? The managers claim that a mysterious man dressed as a character from Poe gave them the opera. The man was said to have descended the stairs of the opera foyer during the masked ball, handed over his score, and simply allowed it to be played without a single cent entering his pocket. After this ludicrous action, the composer was said to have vanished into thin air. Is this a likely story, my dear readers? Investigators believe otherwise...

"We're ruined!" Firmin cried, "Ruined!"

"What ever is the matter?" Andre asked.

"The paper! They say that we stole _Don Juan Triumphant_! A private detective just spent hours questioning _all_ the ballet girls! We'll be thrown out!" Firmin was almost weeping.

"I wish I had thought of _that_," Andre mused.

"Of what?"

"Why, of pretending to be a detective so that I might spend the day with the ballerinas!" Andre replied.

"Pay attention! We could be imprisoned!"

"Nonsense!" Andre said, "Our ghost wrote it, didn't he? Well, he'll just have to come out and say so. Then, when he says that it was his idea in the first place to perform the opera, we'll be just right as rain!"

"If he comes," Firmin grumbled.

"Don't be such a pessimist," Andre retorted coolly, "He's _bound _to come. He is the Opera Ghost, and he stays in the opera. He'll be about in no time."


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The morning had been so cold that Christine had decided not to visit the graveyard. A freezing rain had covered the snow, which had then turned to ice. After that, the weather had cooled again and made the city a slippery block of silver. Christine did not want to be out in such weather. She sat in the Changy parlor, sipping some chocolate. Raoul sat beside her, reading the paper that he had sent a servant to fetch, despite the ice.

"Well, well, well," Raoul sighed unhappily, "Your friend is the next Mozart."

Christine looked up from her drink, "What is that?"

"It appears that the public took a little too great a liking to the 'opera macabre'. They want more," Raoul sighed and threw the paper on the floor.

"Yes, that is unexpected," Christine agreed.

Raoul nodded, "Unexpected..."

"What I do not understand is why Erik never appeared," Christine mused.

"Yes, I do not understand either!" Raoul exclaimed, "Even if he knew of the plot, one would think his only thought would be to challenge it! Maybe he's dead."

"No!" Christine cried without thinking. She blushed, "I mean, I don't think that is very probable."

"Ha!" Raoul grunted.

"Raoul," Christine ventured, lightly touching the Viscount's arm, "I'm worried. What if something... something happened to him?"

Raoul scowled at her, "Oh, yes," he growled, "mustn't let anything happen to that murdering wretch. Christine! Didn't you understand what the plot _was_?"

"Well, I didn't want to _be_ in the plot!" Christine snapped.

"Well you were!"

"You made me!" Christine said, "I don't want Erik to die!"

"Oh, of course not! Let's just let everyone else die instead. After all, murderers should be able to..."

"Shut up!" Christine yelled, growing red, "That wasn't what I meant at all! He's not just a murderer anyway he's..."

"Oh, then I suppose that stage hand simply killed himself?" Raoul interrupted.

"We don't know what happened there!"

"You seemed pretty worried up on the roof!"

"I was startled! I'd never seen a man die before!" Christine exclaimed, "Oh, dear! I should have never brought you to the roof! All the mess caused from that is my fault!"

"Oh, yes, and the ghost had nothing to do with it at all, did he?" Raoul said coldly.

"You brute! You don't care for me at all, anyway!" Christine accused.

"I? Of course, I don't. I only rescued you in the graveyard, at great risk to myself, thought of the whole _Don Juan_ plot, I did nothing!"

"You say Erik is a murderer, yet you placed me in position to be carried off by him last night!"

"Oh, I had guards all around, you were safe!"

"Yes, safe with guards pointing guns at me," Christine retorted, "If Erik really is as evil as you say, suppose he had used me to shield himself from the bullets if he was close enough to me."

"As if that would happen..."

"Or what if he held me to him so that we died together?"

"He wouldn't have done that, I'm sure," Raoul replied.

"Why not? Are you saying he loves me?"

"He's obsessed with you," Raoul answered, losing ground.

"Othello was obsessed, too," Christine pointed out.

"Hang it all!" Raoul snapped, "I did all in my power to keep you safe, and you are safe. Was I safe?"

"In the opera box? Yes, very."

"No, I mean, in the graveyard."

"Oh, yes, how brave, you fought a man in a duel," Christine rolled her eyes, "It's not as if you've studied self-defenses in the naval academy or something."

Raoul gritted his teeth, "Yes, and it's not as if you were worried about the life of a murderer and not of your own friend, either, was it?"

"What do you mean by that? I was worried for you. What was I supposed to do to prove myself, let you kill Erik?"

"Yes! All our problems would be over! It would have been a heroic act!" Raoul glared at his friend, "But no, you couldn't think of society! Of course, when I was wounded you made no objection." Raoul raised his voice to a falsetto, "Yes, let's just let Raoul get killed. Never mind him, he's only a loyal friend. I'd rather have this deadly viper, much more interesting, his is."

"You mind your tongue!" Christine cried, "You know nothing!

"Nothing, oh?" Raoul asked, "Well, then why did you only object to your lying _angel's_ immediate danger?" Raoul re-adopted the falsetto voice, "No, Raoul! Not like this, Raoul! Whatever would I do without my never-do-wrong friend? You on the other hand, well, there are plenty of aristocrats in the world..."

Christine's pale hand struck Raoul full in the face. "You -know -nothing!" she said hoarsely, "First of all, I knew that you were fine because, after the _scratch _was administered to your arm, you went on fighting. _If _you had been fallen my protest would have been the same, only Erik would have obeyed me without visible regret and never brought the matter up again." Christine threw her chocolate on the floor and grabbed her cloak. Blinking back tears, she rushed from the room.

"Where are you going?" Raoul asked indignantly.

"None of your business!" Christine called icily as she left the house.

Once out on the icy streets Christine continued to brood over the previous argument. _Raoul doesn't care about me at all._ She thought. _He simply wanted to be a hero. 'Oh yes, I killed the phantom, right before the woman he loved eyes. On top of that, I married the girl -allow me to flaunt this achievement. True, she's rather traumatized from seeing her friend blasted to pieces, but that should pass with age.' That's how Raoul would be if his plan worked. Besides, if Erik were as evil as Raoul thinks, I would have been in terrible danger. No one who cared about someone else would do that to them! _

_Erik doesn't care about me either. If he did he wouldn't have lied to me. He wouldn't have shouted at me when I took off his mask. He wouldn't threaten, he wouldn't stalk, he would behave normally! The wretch!_

_I think I'll marry someone entirely different than Erik and Raoul. See how they like that! The man will love me and always care for me. He'll not have a talented bone in his body and he'll be as ugly as a mule, but he'll love, and that is all I care for! Who needs Erik's talents and Raoul's looks? They're both cads, hang them! I want a husband whom, after years have gone by and Erik has lost his wits and Raoul his looks, will still adore me. _

As Christine walked, absorbed in her own melancholia, her thoughts fell to deep self-pity.

_Nothing good ever happens to me! My father died. Why did he have to die? Why did he tell me about the angel before he died? Didn't he know that such a story would leave me susceptible to womanizers like Erik, who, in turn, would leave me susceptible to womanizers like Raoul? _

_Madame Giry knew about Erik, also. Raoul said she did! Why did she let me believe that he was the angel? Why did she let him do the things he did? Why didn't she protect me? She would never let her precious Meg fall into such danger! Oh no! Even though she said she adopted me, I always knew she loved her own daughter best. Maybe that was why I befriended Erik so readily. _

_Besides, I do care for Erik. He isn't the way Raoul says he is! He isn't! I know him better than anyone! Why, Madame Giry did the same things to him that she did to me, treating us much, much less than her own daughter. Now Erik might be hurt, or dead, or gone and I may never know! Perhaps he learned of the plot and thought I wanted him dead and went away... or worse._

Christine leaned against a building, looking across the street. She had walked all the way to the opera. Her eyes filled with tears and she felt liked a child and not at all like a woman.

Suddenly, from her left, she heard someone whistling out the tune of _Past the point of No Return. _She wheeled round. Strolling towards the opera was a tall, well-dressed man. The man looked at her and stopped whistling. "Why, Mlle. Daae!" The man's voice was thick with an accent, yet very attractive.

"Oui," Christine replied, supposing this was one of her newfound 'fans'.

"Delighted to make your acquaintance!" the man said, bestowing a disarming smile, "I was charmed by your performance! In my humble opinion, you made _Don Juan Triumphant _what it is! The part seemed to be written for you!"

"Th, thank you," Christine answered. _It probably _was_ written for me. Poor Erik..._

"You saved the show! I am only sorry that you were forced to perform alongside such an old bore as that large Italian! The role of Don Juan needs youth, passion near obsession, brilliance and a fresh voice for a fresh work. That is why, I suppose, that they cast _me_ in the role for tonight, tomorrow, and the rest of the performances. I do so look forward to playing alongside _you_, my diva!"

Christine was surprised, "I, well, congratulations. I'm sure you will make a wonderful Don Juan."

"So am I," the man said, grinning. He had very sharp looking teeth. "Would you care to show me the opera, Mademoiselle?"

"Of course," Christine agreed.

"Watch your step, now," the man said as the crossed the road.

"What is your name, Monsieur?"

"Phelan," he replied.

The two climbed the icy stairs to the opera.


	5. Part II: Sahirat, tahdidat, and sukun T

**Part II: Sahirat, tahdidat, and sukun -Taqatul**

_Author's note: I'm sorry about the typing errors in the last chapters. I wrote it at night and I must confess to a lack in proofreading. Therefore, I will be sure to re-read my fics much more carefully in the future. Lastly, I hope that you will forgive me for my lack of aptitude in the area of the Arabic language. I am only just beginning to familiarize myself with it. Your forgiveness, please. _

Once again, the score of _Don Juan Triumphant_ dazzled the musical world, however, this time it was played as an art and not as a trap. The costumes had been re-designed to allow for more comfort on the part of Christine and other members of the cast. The sets were elaborated on, and the entire musical ensemble practiced until the near point of exhaustion on their parts. Everything was perfected.

Carlotta and Piangi left the opera and were not a part of the performance. The former diva's role was given to a Polish chorus girl named Eugenia Boleslaw, and the Don was, of coursed, played by the new tenor, Phelan.

Phelan was an anomaly, in a positive sense of the word, amidst the opera. He kept to himself, never flaunting his great role the way other stars did -and heaven knows he had reasons to flaunt! Phelan was a genius. Not only could he sing in perfect tune as soon as he looked at a sheet of music, but his vocal range was unapproachable. He was not only a tenor, but also a baritone, alto, and bass. What was more, his amazingly versatile voice was filled with emotion, a quality lacking in Piangi. In fact, his whole being acted the part. His gray eyes burned, his face portrayed the character to perfection. It was almost frightening how excellently he performed. He and Christine seemed destined to become the shining stars of their generation.

The critics loved the new performance even more than they had loved the first one. If Piangi had brought tears to the crowds eyes, Phelan brought a deluge. Christine was every bit as stunning as on her first performance, and looked twice as lovely in her new costume. However, some of the exquisite beauty of her own talent seemed diminished when next to the overpowering tidal wave that Phelan brought to the stage. Everyone unanimously decided that he _was_ Don Juan.

All was not well, however, despite the success of the show. The opera house was tense. Detectives prowled about the premises, asking questions and searching for the composer. Everyone wanted to know who had written the wonderful composition and if he would create another. However, no one, even the now chronically worried Christine, had seen the ghost. He seemed to have vanished; taking what serenity was left in the opera with him.

Christine was deeply troubled by the disappearance of her tutor and friend. What was more unnerving was the presence of the new tenor. Something about his gray unnerved her. He always seemed to be watching her, waiting for her to move. It seemed unnatural for him to have so brilliantly captured Erik's work so soon, as well. It was almost as if he had heard the opera before. Even the lyrics seemed second nature him. On top of all that, Phelan seemed to have appeared from no where. No one knew him, not even the critics, and he bore only his one name. The entire affair was eerie.

Christine accepted the applause at the final curtain halfheartedly, her mind elsewhere. She hurried off to her dressing room, hoping that Erik might have heard her sing. She rushed to the mirror, but it was as still as ice. She sighed unhappily and looked at her rose. The petals were dying...

A knock roused her from her thoughts. "Mademoiselle?" It was Phelan.

"Oui?" Christine said, opening the door.

Phelan, dressed all in black, smiled at her. She could not help but think that his teeth seemed unusually white.

"Hello," Christine said nervously. Why did he seem to disquieting now when he seemed quite normal when they have first met?

"Good day," the tenor bowed, "You performed magnificently!"

"As did you," Christine replied.

"I was wondering, mademoiselle," Phelan said, his accent rather more thick that normal, "if you would accompany me to a dinner?"

"Oh, I said that I would see Raoul tonight," Christine protested.

"That stuffy, starched aristocrat?" Phelan laughed, "You must be joking! Tell me, what is it you see in him, besides an overabundance of lace?"

"You're not being kind!" Christine said, "Raoul is a very good friend, they're much more to him that lace!"

Phelan laughed; he had a contagious laugh and soon Christine as smiling also.

"Come, my dear," Phelan said smoothly, "He can't keep you to himself, you know. Besides, I need to talk to you about something."

Christine sighed, "About what?"

"The missing composer," Phelan said coolly, studying his perfect nails.

"What!" Christine gaped, "Tell me!"

"Nah, nah, nah!" he said, shaking a slender finger at her, "Not unless we go to dinner."

"What will I said to Raoul?" Christine asked helplessly.

"Say I invited you," he said, "Cheerio!" The tall, dark form of the tenor slipped out the door, "Our rendezvous is in the foyer!" he called.

"Christine pulled out a plain, green dress. She did not want Raoul to think that she was involved with the somewhat disturbing Phelan in a romantic way. She put on the dress and her cloak. She tied her hair back with a ribbon and slipped a watch into her pocket. Another knock came from the door.

"Who is it?" Christine asked.

"Eugenia," the heavily accented voice replied.

Christine opened the door and embraced the girl. The two kissed on either cheek and smiled. Eugenia had always been a kind girl and had been Christine and Meg's companion when they were both in the chorus.

"Eugenia," Christine said, "you did wonderfully today!"

"You did beautiful!" the Polish girl lisped.

Christine blushed and smiled, "Well, did you enjoy your first part?"

"Oh, yes!" Eugenia replied, "I did not think I would get a part, because of my accent."

"Oh, don't be silly!" Christine giggled, "Phelan has an accent and Carlotta had a horrible accent!"

"No, no, bring-a me doggy!" Eugenia said, imitating the former diva.

"Speaking of Phelan, I'm to meet him in the foyer," Christine said.

"Oh!" Eugenia cried, grinning.

"Just to talk some things over," Christine added hastily. Her friend's giddy smile fell.

"Still," Eugenia said, "You are meeting him."

Christine shrugged.

"Everything wonderful happens to you, and you don't even appreciate it!"

"Oh, hardly!" Christine replied.

"Are you really friends with the composer that they are looking for?" Eugenia asked.

Christine paused, "Yes, you could say that."

"Oh! What is he like?"

"Eugenia, you really are a pest!" Christine teased, "But I'll confide in you later, Phelan is probably waiting for me and I still have to explain to Raoul why I won't be coming to his home for supper."

Christine wondered out into the halls. Soon she came upon Raoul, who was coming to meet her.

"Raoul, I..." Christine began.

"I know already!" Raoul snapped, "I met Phelan in the foyer. ' Oh, sir, your friend and I are going to supper. Cheerio.'"

"Oh..." Christine frowned, "It's not what you think."

"What am I to think? You've never been true to me, not even once!" Raoul's normally pallid face was beat red.

"Raoul, he said he had something to talk to me about," Christine said indignantly, "In fact, I'm sure you would be welcome to come with us."

Raoul looked at Christine inquisitively, "What does he want to talk to you about?"

"Erik," Christine said breathlessly.

"Erik? Good heavens, Christine! Phelan isn't even from here, what could he possibly know about Erik? Can't you tell a trickster from an honest man? Are you that naive?"

"But what if..." Christine started.

"Wait! No, I will accept your invitation, Mlle. Daae," Raoul said curtly, "We'll show this foreign singer that cads are not accepted in French society, despite how _some_ countries act!"

Christine link her arm through Raoul's and was happy that he was coming with her. Despite her feelings towards him about the _Don Juan_ plot, she was glad that he was her friend.

"What's this then? Backing out on me?" Phelan asked as Christine and Raoul entered the foyer.

"I thought that my friend might want to hear what you have to say as well," Christine said innocently.

"Sorry, confidential," Phelan replied, "Good day and cheerio!"

"Wait a moment!" Raoul snapped, "If you think that you're going to lure Christine away, alone, without any protection from myself, you are insane!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Phelan threw up his hands, "Is that it? Ah, I see!" The tenor rubbed his chin, "Very well, come along. I suppose you might be able to keep a secret."

Raoul scowled, "That would depend on what the secret is."

"It's a _secret_ secret," Phelan answered, "The kind that you are not supposed to tell."

Raoul glanced at Christine. She shrugged and they accompanied Phelan out of the opera.

_**Ta-da! Odd, isn't it? Review and tell me what you think! Oh, and this isn't a C/other-guy fic. What do you think of Phelan? More importantly, anyone know why that's his name, what the name means, and what nationality he is?**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Raoul and Christine followed Phelan to his personal cab. In a rather uncomfortable silence, one made more so by Phelan's incessant, mysterious smile, they wound their way to a seedy tavern known as _The Dead Shark._

"What in the name of..." Raoul gaped, "We're not going into that!"

"Why ever not?" Phelan asked.

"It looks rough," Christine said.

"It's practically empty," Phelan replied smoothly, "Besides, there's a back room where we can be alone."

"Why is that so important?" Raoul asked suspiciously.

"You can't tell secrets with listening ears!" Phelan exclaimed, exasperated.

"Come, Raoul," Christine said. She felt as if she had to know what Phelan knew about Erik.

Reluctantly, Raoul followed Christine and Phelan into the shabby tavern. The smell of cigarette smoke, hard liquor, and dead fish filled the building to a nauseating degree. A drunken sailor slept in a corner, two wild youths sat at a table, playing cards, and a poor, little boy stood by the hearth, sweeping the ashes.

Phelan swept past the tavern's sites and into a back room. He closed the door after his 'guests' had entered and the three sat down at a crude table.

"Well?" Christine asked impatiently.

"Wait for me to open the window," Phelan replied, "It's smells rotten in here." The tenor pulled a grimy window open and a fresh breeze wafted in. "Good, good!" he said, breathing deeply.

"_Well?_" Christine was beyond eager for the information that the singer might give.

"Yes," Phelan said, sitting down, "I will begin. But first, promise you will not reveal what I am going to tell you. I've waited too long to let my reward pass into another man's hands!" The two others gave their word and the tenor went on, "You may not know this, but I have been looking for Erik for years."

"What?" Christine exclaimed, astonished that anyone, aside from those closely involved with the opera, should know of Erik. Even more astounding was the fact that Phelan knew the opera ghost's _name_.

"Wait!" Phelan replied, "No time for questions. Honestly, do you want to hear the story or not? Yes? Good. Right then, I have been looking for him. I have been looking because of two reasons. One, I have reason to believe that we might be half brothers, not that family sentimentality means anything to me. Shush! No questions! I'll reveal the long undusted family skeletons in due time," Phelan scowled and silenced whatever question might have occurred. He continued, "Two, Erik is a prodigy. He is a genius! Why, the government that controlled him and knew how to use his gifts properly..." Phelan beamed, "Let's just say that we shouldn't let such talent fall into the wrong hands."

"This isn't a town square," a burly man interrupted, "Order something or leave."

Phelan was ruffled by the interruption, but the three ordered glasses of some _vin ordinaire, _which was the best that the shoddy carried. The drinks were served warm and soured, but the three did find themselves sipping on them from time to time. After the glasses were serves, Phelan continued his story.

"Well, as I said, I am looking for Erik because of those reasons," Phelan went on.

Raoul interrupted, "You say he is a genius? Madame Giry told me the same. Oh, yes, I'll grant he's an artist. But, really, what would a government want with music and drawings?"

"That, monsieur, is where you are mistaken," Phelan answered, taking a sip on the cheep wine, "Although Erik is brilliant in the artistic fields, there are other talents that he possess, talents that people would kill for."

"Truly you exaggerate," Raoul scoffed.

"Do I?" Phelan asked, sneering.

Christine looked from her glass to her friend to the tenor, "Go on," she said.

"Oui. Allow me to tell you of some of Erik's exploits. Erik, I have reason to believe, was born of my mother and her first husband. Due to the birth defects that I feel sure you both are familiar with, both his parents despised Erik. Soon after his birth, his father died. Deep in debt and drowning loss of social status, my mother blamed her defective son. When he was two years old, she met the man who was to become my father. Wishing to rid herself of debt and make herself socially acceptable to my father, she sold her son to a traveling fair for seven crowns."

"What?" Christine gasped, "How could she?"

"How do you know this?" Raoul asked skeptically.

"I read things that should never be read, listen to things that should never be heard, and do things best left undone," Phelan replied without qualm, "Shall I continue?"

"Yes," Christine answered.

"Well, after being sold, Erik made several attempts to escape. Being still a very small child, these attempts were in vain. However, I was told that to insure against any possible escape, he was branded on the left shoulder with the mark of an X and an eye. If your Erik and my Erik truly are one and the same, the mark should still be visible."

Christine shuddered.

"During this time, Erik began to prove his genius. Be watching a magic trick just once, he was able to replicate it perfectly. He learned singing, music, acrobatics, ventriloquism, and horseback riding in the same ways. Soon, he was being exhibited not only as a freak but also as an entertainer. However, as he progressed in genius, the gypsies grew to fear him more. Soon, he was kept nearly all the time in a cage or chained to a wall. -I learned all this from an old woman who said that Erik had saved her daughter from choking."

"I can't believe that could go on without the law intervening!" Christine exclaimed, her voice tremulous with emotion.

"Yes, astonishing, isn't it? They say that they even muzzled him like a dog. How very, very interesting," Phelan said nonchalantly, "Anyway, after a while, he learned something that the gypsies did not expect, lock-picking. Well, that was that, and he escaped. Not that he got far. A Persian, whom had been hired to bring him back to his home country to entertain a princess, picked him up. Erik was kidnapped and sent to the palace of a shah. However, after a while as entertainer, Erik went on to prove himself in different fields. He began to show talent in architecture and invention. I do not have a full account of his adventures, but I do know that he constructed a new palace, filled with trap doors, a torture chamber, and many amazing war machines. He also is rumored to have invented a war machine that could make the country that owns it world dominator. He never built it, but he was witnessed drawing up plans for one. During this time, he also was used as a gladiator of sorts."

"Wait!" Raoul interrupted, "This is all a lie! Madame Giry said that Erik could not have been older than nine when she brought him to the opera."

"He wasn't," Phelan replied.

"But... you don't expect me to believe..."

Phelan arched his eyebrows.

"But, he would only have been, what? Six? Seven?" Raoul sputtered.

Phelan's eyebrows arched higher.

"A six or seven year old child does not design! This... this is impossible! And fighting as a gladiator? What nonsense!"

Phelan's eyebrows curbed into preternaturally high arches.

Raoul fell back on the bench; "This cannot be true! It's a fabrication."

"Whatever you say," Phelan sniffed, "I knew you'd never believe me."

"Go on," Christine whispered.

"Ah, at least someone is interested!" Phelan snorted, "Well, after creating the palace, the inventions, and the sheer glory of the Shah's kingdom, the Shah decided that Erik was too smart for his own good. So, he decried that Erik was to be burned alive for witchcraft."

"At seven or six years old?" Raoul said, still disbelieving.

"Yes, he needed some reason to kill the boy," Phelan stated flatly, "Anyway, Erik was too clever. Forming an unlikely alliance with the very man who had kidnapped him, Erik escaped, taking his best plans with him."

"Where did he go?" Christine asked.

"He ran off to the sea and stowed away on a pirate ship," Phelan replied.

"Oh, of course," Raoul said sarcastically.

"He did," Phelan said, "But he was caught. The pirates made him their personal slave. However, when a British commander patrolling the seas attacked them, Erik's lasso proved invaluable. Erik is only so-so with the blade, but he's brilliant with the lasso. He was also a wonderful shot. I was told that he saved the ship."

"Why? Christine asked.

"What?"

"Why did he want to help the pirates?"

"Oh, if they were caught everyone would have been hung, even him," Phelan answered, "Anyway, they stole a great load of gold from the ships and buried the treasure. When only a few miles from land, Erik dove off the side, swam ashore, and stole the treasure -every brass farthing!"

"At seven years old!" Raoul cried.

"Yes," Phelan answered, "Don't ask me how I found out all this, my own adventures are too long and dull to be worth repeating. Besides, I was not always, shall we say, legal."

"Please, continue," Christine urged, breathless.

"Yes, yes," Phelan took a drink of his wine, "Erik packed the treasure into bags and bought himself a mule. He used the animal to carry his riches and, after a year of traveling, he arrived in France. He buried his treasures and went in search of his mother, whom he still remembered due to a very good memory! -I had all these details told by various people, and I believe the story to be accurate." Phelan cleared his throat, "Well, he ran into bad luck on his search, because he was caught by the very same gypsies that had bought him when he was two. This time, they locked him up so well that he could not escape. They beat him also, kept him weak. However, he strangled his captor -in self defense- and ran off with your Giry woman. Later, he retrieved his riches and his secret plans and took them, I believe, under the opera. I was about to catch him there too, if it wasn't for this ridiculous _Don Juan_ business. It appears he's been frightened off." Phelan sighed, "But I'll track him. Where there's smoke there's fire. Where there's magic there's Erik."

"You cannot expect anyone to believe that!" Raoul exclaimed.

"I don't," Phelan replied simply, "The truth is hard to believe."

_**Was that odd? I do hope you enjoyed this chapter! Tell me what you think! Smiles! (PS, but please remember that the key word in constructive criticism is 'constructive'.) Oh, and don't think that your ideas on who Phelan is are right or wrong. I do so love twists. Keep guessing, reading, and (mostly) reviewing! Lots of Laughs, Draver.**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Andre and Firmin sat alone in their office. Twenty thousand franks had been placed in Box Five, which was empty. No one entered the deep cellars. No one defamed the Ghost, teased him, or otherwise annoyed him. The best of the sets, costumes, and talent had gone to Don Juan Triumphant. Christine was to be reigning diva, forever. They had even composed a very polite letter to the phantom asking how much of the Don Juan funds he wanted. They had left the note in Box Five with a bottle 1865 Sicily Claret (a very good year), and a new pair of opera glasses. However, all these kindness were performed to no avail. The phantom of the opera was no where to be found, and the managers were learning to face the fact that there was a very good chance that their ghost might never turn up again.

"This is all that blasted Viscount's doing!" Firmin grumbled.

"Yes, that plot to capture the ghost was the straw that broke the camel's back, as it were," Andre agreed.

"He's gone, vanished!" Firmin sighed miserably, "And now we'll never prove that we didn't steal Don Juan Triumphant! Oh, we should have staid in the junk business"

"Scrap metal!" Andre corrected.

"What does it matter?" Firmin asked, tossing a cigar butt on the floor.

"Suppose," Andre said as if hitting upon an idea, "Suppose that our ghost and the Viscount's rival are not the same people at all? Suppose they are, in fact, separate entities?"

"And?" Firmin pressed.

"Well, only one of our ghosts could have written the opera," Andre went on, "If it was the rival, then we must search for a man. A man is probably off in the city someplace and not in the opera at all."

"And if it's a ghost?" Firmin asked.

"Well, considering the way our composer reappears and disappears at will, I'm thinking that we really did receive our libretto from beyond the tomb. If this is correct, all we must do is summon the dead."

"What? My heavens, man, you must be joking!" Firmin ran his fingers though his hair.

"No! Really!" Andre assured, "We'll have a seance!"

"We'll burn in hell!"

"No, don't be silly," Andre sniffed, "We're simply trying to ask a composer permission to use his work. Is that so terrible?"

"Yes!" Firmin snapped, "Terrible! We'll be visiting a witch! A bloody, burn-them-up, caldron bubbling witch!"

"A medium, Richard," Andre reasoned, "Not a witch."

"Where would we even find a medium?" Firmin asked.

"Why, with the gypsies, of course," Andre replied, lighting another cigar.

**Dadada! Like this so far? Do tell; I am new to the whole "serious" fic thing. Critique is accepted! Do give an honest opinion! Smiles and cheers! PS, I have a new computer and I'm not used to it yet, so if this is odd looking, I am not at fault! Oh, and I'm not telling if Phelan is Erik's half brother or not. The fellow is a liar, just so you know. Well, tally-ho! Oh and PLEASE review, I have hundreds of hits!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Don Juan Triumphant triumphed over all other musical performances once more. Christine played brilliantly alongside Phelan, who was a stunning as ever. The crowds were entranced. Critics were thrilled. Everyone enjoyed watching the play.

…Except one.

Erik laid on his stomach in the rafters, watching his opera through a ventilation grating used to free the theater fro the gas-light smoke. His eyes were fixed to a pair of opera glasses as he stared at the production.

Christine!

She was more beautiful than he had ever seen her. Her voice filled his ears and he clenched his teeth. Did she think he was dead? Did she even care? Of course not. He stifled a sob.

He had wanted to come back to the opera and reconcile himself with her, however, when he had arrived she he found his angel involved in a plot to kill him. The shock of the revelation was unbearable. He had hidden himself, refusing to appear only to see the satisfaction on his beloved's face at his demise. Alone, he had staid in the dark and cavernous catacombs of the underlands. However, something caused his return: a newspaper. Someone must have dropped it, and it founds its way down sewers and drains until he had stumbled upon it, and read the one dry page: the musical reviews.

He had to reappear, if only to see what they had done with his opera. He longed to hear the applause, the cheering, the glory. It was what he had always wanted for his music. Yet, he could not enjoy it. What was the purpose of fame when the one person he wanted to share his joy with hated him?

He turned the opera glasses away from his friend and onto the new tenor. The young, brilliant voice was certainly not Piangi. Yet, in all the voice's beauty, there was something inherently wrong with it. Something unearthly was in the voice, and something familiar in the rolling accent so very much akin to Erik's own. At last, the face of the tenor came into view.

No! Erik gasped. _Is that… That can't be… Phelan?_

Erik gapped. 

A knot formed in Erik's stomach and his mind wondered only one thing, how did that gremlin find him?**Smiles! Review please! **


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Author's note: I am soooo sorry about the use of the word gremlin in the last chapter! I forgot that gremlins were invented by British air-force pilots much later in time than POTO! Gasp! Ok, forgive me. And, as a side note, Phelan has NOTHING to do with that horrible Mary Monk book. The names are a coincidence, nothing more. I certainly would not base one of my characters off a madwoman's book of propaganda (particularly if the madwoman in question had somehow managed to drive a slate pencil into her head). So, if you were wondering, Mary Monk has nothing to do with this fic. Thank you for your cooperation and go green!

Christine bowed at the applause, but felt nothing. Her mind was not in her work as she pondered over the story Phelan had told her. Even as the curtain closed and she was in the backstage world, she did not return to reality.

"Christine?" Meg asked, "What is the matter?"

"Oh, nothing, Meg," Christine replied, "I was just… thinking."

"About what?" Meg pressed.

"About… about the opera ghost, actually," Christine admitted.

"I told you he was real," Meg stated bluntly.

Christine smiled. "Yes, he is."

"I need to go now. Mama wants to talk with me about the Don Juan choreography."

"Yes, we can speak later," Christine agreed. She secretly was glad to be left alone.

After Meg had gone, Christine strolled amidst the unused sets and props that were stored away. She was looking for some sign, some trace that the Phantom still prowled these halls. However, there was none. Could it be possible that he might have died? Christine did not allow herself to consider this, however.

Suddenly, a perfectly gloved finger tapped her bare shoulder. She whirled around and saw Phelan, still drenched in stage blood, standing behind her. He smiled.

"Sorry to frighten you," he said cockily.

"What makes you think you frightened me?" Christine asked.

"By the way you jumped just now," Phelan replied, "Rather bemusing, that."

"What do you want?" Christine asked, "Why haven't you cleaned yourself up?"

"Oh, mummy, I'm sorry I'm dirty," Phelan mocked in a falsetto voice, faking a lisp.

"What do you want?" Christine restated firmly.

Phelan smiled. "Must I have a reason for speaking to a lovely, young woman? The Fop and Phantom duo do not seem bound my such restrictions."

"What are you talking about?" Christine asked uneasily.

"My dear diva," Phelan said, taking her hand, "you sang like Titanna tonight!"

"Thank you, monsieur," Christine answered coolly.

"Christine," Phelan said, "really, must you be so cruel? Can't we be… friends?"

"If friendship is all you desire, then I suppose," Christine said warily.

"You are such a Rusalka!" the tenor exclaimed, "Crafty Christine!"

"What do you want!" Christine repeated the statement flatly.

"Do you treat your other friends this way?" Phelan asked. He took her other hand and held it firmly. His gloves were sticky with fake blood. "My dear, surely you must know that you have the voice of a siren! Your music calls all earth to you, Orpheus of the opera! Will you not give me one gift?"

"That would depend on the nature of the gift," Christine stated, pulling her hands away.

"Perhaps, you would grace me with the universal sign of wordless affection? That is, a kiss?"

Christine stepped away from Phelan. "Absolutely not! Are you drunk?"

"Only on your voice! Oh, I have heard the Seelie Court sing less beautifully! Why is it you waste your affection upon the likes of that lace-and-ribbons boy and my own freakish brother?"

"First, whatever I do with my affections can hardly be called a waste. Second, whatever my feelings are towards Erik and Raoul are none of your concern. Last, I care nothing for presumptuous men!" Christine spat her words in order to make her point clear.

"Heartless," Phelan muttered. He turned away and said in a morbidly bemused tone, "So, I may now guess why I cannot find my brother?"

"How dare you!" Christine snapped, "I can assure you, monsieur, Erik is much more of a gentleman than you obviously imagine, and my friend. Yes, he is my friend, and I will not take well to you defaming our relationship, which is an honorable one, I assure you!"

Phelan turned back to face Christine. He looked her straight in her eyes. "If you must behave with honor, might I ask for another gift?" There was an evil gleam in eyes.

"Again, that depends on what you want," Christine said.

"Oh, it isn't anything that will compromise your honor, I assure you."

"What is it?"

"A lock."

"A what?"

"Of your hair," Phelan touched one of her curls.

"Whatever do you want that for?"

"Simply so that when I move on I might always remember the woman who sang like the gods!" Phelan stated his request theatrically, tossing back his head.

"You're leaving?" Christine asked, trying to hide the relief in her voice.

"You haveno idea," Phelan chuckled, "But I feel that my quest is nearing its end. Please, just one lock!" Phelan produced a small pair of shears from his pocket.

Taking them, Christine cagily snipped a small, snaky curl from her abundant tresses.

Phelan snatched it greedily. He smiled, showing all of his very white teeth. "I will treasure this, mademoiselle. It will be the bonding link that will keep you near me forever."

Christine did not like the way her singing partner spoke. She involuntarily shuddered and excused herself as quickly as she could.

Phelan chuckled as he twisted the limp, severed curl. He had obtained exactly what he had wanted.

Ah, isn't that a grand way to end a chapter? Sorry about the slow update. sigh But, the good news is, while I was busy not writing on this fic, I wrote a bunch on my latest novel, making it now a grand total of 49 pages (and I didn't start it that long ago)! sqee with joy. Ok, so please, PLEASE review! I'll try and respond to everyone who does. Lastly, I hope this comes out after FF formats it, but this is how you write Trapdoor Lover in Persian:

دریچه عاشق، دوستدار، فاسق، خاطرخواه

If you can pronouns this, please PM me and tell me how to say it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Author's note: Okay, sorry this took so long. I've been busy. Oh, and sorry for the random bold font. I honestly don't know how that happened. P D…M computer.

Phelan fingered the severed tendril of hair in his long fingers. It was the binding force that would keep Christine with him forever. It seemed strange, he had initially left his home to search for the mysterious invention that Erik had made, and he had found an angel. She was perfect, the sort of woman that he was sure he would never tire of; well, not soon anyway. What was even more wonderful was that she was Erik's friend. Now hat she had given him, freely, a lock of her beautiful hair, she would have no choice was to become the key that would unlock the secrets of Erik. What a rewarding day.

Raoul sat alone in his parlor. Scattered about his feet like dead moths lay various editions of newspapers, all telling of the genius who had created _Don Juan Triumphant_. The papers had even coined a silly nickname for the opera, Don J.T. Ridiculous as it seemed, the former freak-show member was a celebratory. As soon as he decided to show up he would be hailed by one and all. His masked face would probably be seen as an attraction. His madness would be equally well accepted; after all, all artists are a little insane. A great artist has a right to be completely, stark, loony, raving mad.

Without anyone to talk to, Raoul brooded over his predicament. It had been difficult enough to keep Christine his while Erik was the Phantom. Now that he was 'the artist' she would probably be in his arms the moment he arrived. Of course, that is presuming that he hadn't committed suicide after learning of Christine's betrayal. The latter possibility was no comfort whatsoever. If it was true, Christine would never forgive him.

It was only a half an hour until Christine would return from the opera. That was, of course, assuming that she hadn't been carried off by her precious angel. Raoul frowned, wallowing in self pity. Breaking his thoughts, a knock resounded at the door.

"I'll get it monsieur," a maid called, "Never you mind monsieur, I'll get the door. You just relax and take it easy like, and I'll get the door. You just…"

"Oh for the love of heaven!" Raoul cried, "_I'll_ get the door."

The maid smiled. That scenario worked every time. She went back to her tippling the merlot.

Raoul ambled to the great door and opened it. Standing dressed all black silk, with a long cape, was Phelan.

"Good day, sir!" he said brightly.

"Oh, yes, good day," Raoul replied grouchily.

"I said, _good_ day, sir," Phelan repeated.

"Yes, and so did I!" Raoul answered, irritated.

"I meant that it was a good day," Phelan continued.

"Yes, I know," Raoul muttered, "Now kindly state your business or leave the premises."

"Me? Me take orders from an insignificant little bug-eyes snit? I should say not!" Phelan said, laughing.

"Are you drunk?" Raoul asked, incredulous. No one had ever poked fun of him before.

"No, I'm not, Monsieur le Fop," Phelan laughed, "I am very happy! Of course, a muff like yourself could never understand true happiness, the kind that comes with danger and trickery and law-breaking!"

Raoul had no response. The tall, laughing man in black made him feel small and unable to defend himself. He did not care for the feeling.

"Put out your chubby, white hand!" Phelan commanded.

"Absolutely not," Raoul replied, "Go home and sleep whatever it is that you are on off."

Phelan grabbed Raoul's hand and pinched it until the viscount cried out in pain. "When I give a command, I expect it to be obeyed!" he grated, twisting Raoul's arm behind his back.

"What are you going to do?" Raoul gasped, wincing.

"You'll see," Phelan cackled. He grinned to himself. "I could use another ferryman."

**Review! Review or I'll become violent! (Now we see the violence that's inherent in the system!) Just kidding, review or I won't update ever again. )**


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Yay, more updates!

When Christine arrived at the de Changy estate she noticed a strange presence in the air. The wind seemed to have an unusual quality to it, one that she could not describe, and macabre little shadows danced over the lawn. She walked quickly to the door and knocked. A maid opened it.

"Hello, what it is?" the maid barked.

"Madame, you know me, I'm Christine Daae," Christine replied.

"Never heard the name," the maid answered. She heaved as sigh that made her boney ribs tremble. "Well, come in anyway," she said, "No use your sitting out here like a bowl of giblets after Christmas."

Christine followed the maid. Something was defiantly wrong. After all, that maid knew her very well.

Inside the de Changy mansion everything became worse. What had happened to the nice, floral wall-paper that had once been in the little hall? The hall was now covered in a striped blue paper. And, what had become of the painting of the four children on a picnic? That was Raoul's favorite painting, and it had been replaced with dreadful picture of a dead elephant and a hunter. Even the portrait of Admiral Changy de la Roche seemed to watch her as she walked. The hall seemed very long, much longer than it should have been, and it was not lighted.

Finally, when they had almost reached the final bend in the hall, just before the parlor room, Christine froze. Where once there had been the de Changy coat of arms and a few family portraits there now were dozens upon dozens of stuffed owls.

"Why did you stop?" the maid asked, harshly.

"It's just, well, why are there all these stuffed owls?" Christine replied.

"Stuffed owls?" the maid exclaimed, "There's aren't any stuffed owls! It's bad luck to kill an owl, twice bad luck to display the body, and no witch in Christendom will leave you be if you stuff an owl. Humph, stuffed owls, what in the world will they think of next?"

"But, ma'am," Christine pressed, "Then what are those?"

"They aren't stuffed," the old woman replied.

Immediately each of the many owls turned too look at Christine, their eyes shimmering in the darkness. With hoots and screeches, the owls lifted their wings and began to swarm about the poor girl.

Christine had never been frightened of owls. Once, her father had brought her home and injured owlet, which she had raised until it was old enough to live on its own. She had always had a fondness for the night-birds. However, even the greatest owl enthusiast does not enjoy being attacked by dozens of angry talons and beaks. Christine wasn't even the greatest owl enthusiast.

"Help!" she cried, screaming in pain as another bird bit her hard on the arm.

"What am I supposed to do?" the maid asked helplessly.

Christine's earsplitting screams filled the house once more as a particularly nasty bird took hold of a lock of her hair and began to pull on it. Christine fumbled for her pocket scissors and severed the lock. Then she pulled her shawl over her head and retreated to a dark corner of the hall. The owls continued to fly in circles around the place where she stood.

"Careful!" the old maid exclaimed, "You'll upset the bats!"

The word 'bats' was like a stab in the chest. For, if there was one thing in the world that Christine hated, it was a bat. She gave a loud yelp and shot up into the air. Immediately a score of bats flew screeching out from the corner.

"Bats!" Christine sobbed, "Bats! Big, ugly bats!" Christine grabbed the first thing that she could lay her hands on, an ugly statuette of a troll that was sitting on a coffee table that had once harbored an angle figurine, and she swung it with all her might. _Thwatp. _The statue collided with the head of a bat, dropping it dead on the floor. At once, all of the owls and bats returned to their former places, as if in shock.

The maid turned on Christine with murder in her eyes. Before the girl realized what was happening, the maid swung her fist and struck Christine a blow to the nose. Blood squirted down her face and she gave a yelp of pain.

"You're the worst guest I've ever seen!" the maid shouted, "I'll have you thrown out!"

Christine glared at the woman. "_I_ am a good friend to the Viscount de Changy, and I intend to report you! I'll tell Raoul and he'll have you thrown out! You'll get rid of your owls and your horrible bats, you'll put back the nice, floral wallpaper, you'll get rid of that dreadful troll statue and picture of the elephant and put back the things that should be there, and you'll fix whatever is wrong with the Admiral's portrait, and you'll put back the coat of arms and the de Changy pictures, and you'll light some candles!" Christine shuddered and added, "And you'll light a fire, it's freezing here!

The maid cackled, and administered another brutal blow to Christine's face. "Don't you think you can talk to me like that, missy!"

"I can talk to a horrible old maid however I like," Christine said between sobs as she nursed her bloodied nose and now blackened eye. "I'll have you locked up!"

"You'll have me locked up?" the maid asked, sneering, "Don't you even know who I am?"

Christine was very frightened by this point and simply shook her head.

"I am a witch!" The maid laughed. She took hold of Christine's arm and pulled her towards the parlor. She suddenly stopped. "Oh, and by the way," she said wickedly, "your foppish love is far, far away by now."

"What?" Christine cried.

"Yes, what a pity," the witch replied, "Of course you can help him."

"How? I'll do anything!" Christine exclaimed, wishing that her voice actually sounded as if she would be willing to do anything.

"You must reveal a certain piece of information," the witch stated.

"I will!" Christine promise, "I will!"

"Then, tell me the location of a certain phantom," a voice replied. Christine turned and saw Phelan step out from the parlor.

**La-ra-la! It's that a dandy way to end a chapter? REVIEW ME! Heh-heh-heh. Oh, good, angst is up soon! Angst! Happy, little angst!**


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

(In which all my readers become angry with Christine and begin their desire to kill the author –a desire that will continue through the majority of the fic, I assure you.)

Phelan stepped out from what had once been the friendly, de Changy parlor. He was dressed in black and was smirking broadly.

Christine glared at the tenor. "What do you want?" she cried, "Where is Raoul? What has happened here?"

"Raoul is far away enjoying a time of forced labor," Phelan said coolly, "It is my duty to inform you that his labor will be cut short by a serious accident that I will have arranged if you do not comply to my wished. Do I make myself inescapably clear?"

Christine nodded, trembling. "You can't hurt him!" she blurted out.

"And I won't," Phelan said gently, "Provided, of course, that you will comply." He paused and lifted Christine's face to the light. "Curse you, you old hag!" he spat at the witch, "You've injured her!"

"I… not badly, master," the witch stammered meekly.

"Why I'll…" Phelan was fuming with rage. He pulled what looked like a long, think stick from his belt and raised it into the air.

"No! Please, sire! Don't!" the witch pleaded.

Too late. With one flick of his twig, Phelan fired a bolt of light at the witch. She shrieked in terror and collapsed to the ground. Then, a strange thing began to happen. The witch became smaller. Her head shrunk into her neck, and her arms and legs shriveled into her ever shrinking body. In no time at all, the witch had been reduced to a puddle of black oil.

Christine gasped. "What did you _do_?" she exclaimed.

"What everyone does in my country when they want to get rid of a witch," Phelan said, "I lightroseited her."

"You did what?" Christine asked.

"I administered several doses of concentrated light extract. Even a little daylight is hard on a witch, but lightroseit is pure and effective poison. Good riddance to her! I explicitly stated that you were not to be harmed."

Christine shuddered. She wondered what sort of 'pure and effective poison' Phelan used on humans.

Phelan replaced his stick into his belt. "Now," he said, cool as ever, "I believe that this is the time when you are supposed to tell me the location of a certain half-brother of mine. Oh, and he's not my half-brother, by the way. He's my twin."

"Your twin?" Christine echoed.

"Now you're just stalling," Phelan accused, "Go on; tell me where Erik is hiding."

"I don't know," she whispered.

"Oh, yes you do," Phelan said coaxingly, "Or, do you still think he's missing? Never fear, darling, he returned to the opera this morning. The bats told me so. But never mind about that, where is his 'lair'?"

"I can't tell you," Christine protested, "I promised him."

"Christine! You're friend's life hangs in the balance and you won't even tell me where a wanted murderer is hiding? Really, Christine, I am surprised at you. You don't deserve the viscount's attentions, really you don't. If you could have only hear the way he pleaded for your safety above all other things… But never mind that, if you want him dead," he snapped his fingers, "he's as good as dead."

"No!" Christine cried. She trembled violently. "Will you promise that you will not hurt Erik?"

"I just want his secret plans, nothing more," Phelan stated.

Christine bit her lip. Erik would survive this, and she had to save Raoul. "All right, I'll tell you," Christine said in a strangled voice.

"No, dearest, I think you need to show me," Phelan replied, "I'm so terrible at following directions."

Christine's heart ached as she and Phelan entered the opera. Phelan kept remarking about how he had know that his brother was hidden in the opera all along. Christine tried to ignore him. The two walked through the corridors and entered Christine's dressing room.

"You go ahead of me," Phelan said as Christine opened the mirror, "We don't want the 'Phantom' to become nervous and run off. Just make use of some of your feminine charm and keep him busy. Oh, and if you warn him, ruin the plans, or run away, I will have the viscount killed in an instant. On ferryman is completely dispensable to me."

Christine nodded, stricken. It was bad enough to be forced to betray Erik, but it was much worse following Phelan's plan of action. She swallowed her guilt and tried to reason with herself. She was saving Raoul's life; that was what she had to keep repeating to herself. However, somewhere in the back of her mind the phrase 'the end does not justify the means' insistently nagged at her.

She walked the entire way to the lake as if in a dream. Phelan was somewhere, following her. She wondered what Erik would say or do when he found out what was afoot. She tried not to think about it.

As she reached the lake she was startled to hear her name called to her. "Christine?"

She turned around and saw Erik standing beside her. He looked tired, even in the darkness, and she noticed that he was wearing the same clothes that he had worn to the graveyard; only the clothes were much more rumpled looking.

"Erik," Christine replied. She could scarcely say his name.

"What are you doing here?" he asked hesitantly, a trace of hope in his voice.

_For Raoul,_ Christine thought, _I must do this for Raoul! I have no choice!_ She tried to smile as she spoke. "I came to see you, Erik. I… wanted to tell you that I never wanted you to be hurt during the Don J.T, I mean, _Don Juan Triumphant _performance."

"You didn't?" Erik asked. He sounded so relieved that Christine almost vomited at her own actions.

Persisting in her act, Christine continued. "Everyone loves your opera, Erik. You're famous. Why, I suspect that if you showed yourself now, no one would hate you or think that you were anything less than an eccentric composer!"

Erik smiled slightly. He shyly placed his hand against Christine's shoulder. "Do you really think so?" he breathed. His voice sounded so hopeful that Christine wanted to cry. She had never heard him sound hopeful before this day, and now she was going to ruin everything.

"I'm certain of it," she heard herself saying.

Erik really did smile this time. Before Christine knew what was happening, she found herself in Erik's embrace.

"But, Christine," he said, "would _you_ be able to look at me… normally? I mean…" Erik's words were cut short by a low, long whistle.

"Thank you, Christine," Phelan's voice said in the darkness, "for being so cooperative."

**Gasp! Christine had BETRAYED him! Heh, it all serves to make a good plot. Whateveh. Anyway, review please. I have WAY too many hits for this story, 1172 to be exact, and that's a messed up number. So PLEASE, if you read it, a little feedback would be nice. It only takes a minute! And if you don't review… I just won't update. So ha!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

**Gasp! The Draver of Drave-Dravedom has returned at long last! AND, she has read the grammar bible. No joke, actually. So, hopefully my readers are still here. ;) Sorry for the wait. May I associate myself with the spirit of remorse?**

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Erik looked up from Christine, startled. His eyes grew wide as he obviously recognized the man who had slipped into his domain.

"Surprise, surprise, dear, little brother!" Phelan said, grinning, "You didn't expect me to follow you all the way here, did you?

"What do you want?" Erik asked, warily, "Why are you here?""Who am I? Where did I go? How will I return?" Phelan said. He laughed. "I needed to finished the 'whos', 'whats', 'wheres', 'whens', 'whys', and 'hows'."

"Answer me or I'll…"

"Or you'll what?" Phelan said, "Erik, Erik, Erik! You know that I always get whatever I want. I'm a genius at it! Why, just look at how perfectly this is turning out! Christine is working for me, so I can get what I want from you, and you will give it to me, because I have this!" Phelan produced a lock of Christine's hair.

"Christine!" Erik cried, "What insanity caused you to do such a foolish thing?"

"Oh, please stop the dramatics," Phelan said.

"I… What did I do?" Christine asked.

"My dear little buttercup," Phelan said, "This exquisite lock of your perfectly trimmed hair is my key to success. You see, my crumpet, I used your lovely hair in a spell. Hair, when added with extract of cat's-cry, creates a force glue that is often called 'puppet magic'. Observe." Phelan held the lock of hair between his fingers and blew on it. "Jump," he said.

Christine jumped.

"Ha! Ha! Good show, Erik, eh?" Phelan said, "Now, I suggest you cooperate. If you refuse, Mademoiselle Daae will take a three hour walk on the bottom of your lake. Toodle-oo."

"Just the same schoolyard bully you always were, Phelan," Erik said, "What do you want me to do."

"I want your plans!" Phelan said greedily.

"My plans? My plans for what?" Erik asked, genuinely confused.

"Your plans that you took from Persia," Phelan said, "Your plans for the ultimate machine. Your plans that could rule the world! I need those plans! I MUST rule all of Faerie!"

"You want those?" Erik asked, incredulously.

"The plans you took from Persia, yes," Phelan said.

"And you think that you will take over Faerie with them?"

"I'm reasonably certain," Phelan assured.  
Erik shook his head in confusion. He was surprisingly calm, Christine thought, though she wondered if, once Phelan departed, he would realize the extent of her betrayal. At least he seemed ready to hand over his plans.

"They're on my desk," Erik said. Phelan followed him and watched as Erik sifted through papers.

"Why do you have so many pairs of tinted spectacles?" Phelan asked.

"Never mind that," Erik said, "Here are you plans. Now, let Christine go and leave me in peace."

"Half a moment," Phelan said. He looked over the papers and emitted a gleeful shriek. "It is them! At long last!"

"Yes, wonderful I'm sure. Will you be off?"

"Please," Christine said, "what about Raoul?"

"Eh?" Phelan asked, "Oh! Yes, him.." He paused, a wicked look entering his eyes. "Oh, Erik! I forgot to tell you. Christine led me here just to save her darling viscount. And I didn't use my spell at all. She betrayed you of her own, free will and just because she loves her handsome boy more than you! Allow that to permeate your brain for a while as I read over these delightful plans."

Erik did not say anything. His expression beneath his mask was unreadable. Slowly, he walked away and sat on the swan bed, his back to Christine.

"Erik… I didn't mean to," Christine said pleadingly, "He said he would kill Raoul."

"I do not doubt it," Erik said, "I'm not angry with you." His voice was steady, but with a forced steadiness. Christine could recognize a hurt tone in his speech.

"I made him promise not to hurt you," she said.

"He won't."

Phelan finished his reading and was giggling madly. "Beautiful, Erik! You've done it again! A masterpiece!"

"Yes, well, enjoy," Erik said.

"You don't happen to have a model or something?"

"I made one, actually," Erik said.

"Made one? Well, hand it over! I must have it, and I must have it now!"

Erik sighed and walked in an irritated manner towards a pile of obscure objects. Christine watched him shove the pile aside, toppling some of the objects onto the floor. A box of bee's wax, an abacus, a top, a bronze mermaid, a rabbit's foot, and a book titled Time Traveling as a Hobby were among the objects, as well as several dozen tinted spectacles.

"You certainly take the epithet of Pack Rat to an extreme," Phelan noted.

Erik ignored this remark and continued to push objects out of his way until he uncovered a desk.

"Why would a man of your age and ingenuity wish to keep four jack-in-the-boxes?" Phelan asked, "I understand one or even two, but four?"

"Put those away!" Erik said sourly. He shoved aside a few more things aside, a knife, a pile of cards, a pincushion, and finally stepped back from his work. "Here it is!" he said.

"At long last!" Phelan cried, clasping and unclasping his hands.

Christine crept forward and gazed at the object.

On a desk, covered in dust, sat a metallic box with a glass screen. Attached below it was a sort of keyboard and a rounded entity that was connected to the box by a wire.

"What is it?" she said, accidentally voicing her question aloud.

"It's a computing machine," Erik said.

"A computer," Phelan added.

**

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**WHAT will Phelan do with the computer. WHY does he want it. WHO is he any way. WHERE does he come from. HOW will he complete his evil scheme. WHEN will it happen. WHY did I think of such a crazy idea?  
Okay… I'll try and update sooner than biannually.**


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